"Delay is natural to a writer. He is like a surfer—he bides his time. Waits for the perfect wave on which to ride in. He waits for the surge (of emotion? of strength? of courage?) that will carry him along." (E.B. White, The Paris Review Interviews, 1969)

11.07.2011

In September of 2006, I shared a small observation about Sport's research on pap smears and HPV. Just a little over 5 years later, her research was vindicated on an NPR morning edition story. Sport's conclusion, which she delineates in her 2010 Feminist Formations Journal article, is that "terms like 'risk and "sexually transmitted disease (STD)' are used to simplify the discussions about HPV to simple 'for' or 'against' positions about vaccinating women and girls. Such positions limit the ways actors can address Gardasil and place public health responsibility upon the bodies of women and girls." Turns out that HPV causes "cancers of the cervix, vagina and vulva in females; penile cancer in boys; both get HPV-associated genital warts" and may be at least partially responsible for "an epidemic of head and neck cancers, and we are seeing this increase in ... nonsmokers." HPV is not an STD, insofar as warts are not only spread through sexual touching. Foucault, were he alive would have a field day with this. Instead, Sport took it upon herself to identify this problematic cultural enthymeme that NOBODY seems to tackle.

Sport knew that the rhetorical force of incorrectly calling HPV an STD set all sorts of social machinery in motion. In the process of trying to get this article published, Sport felt pushback from nearly everyone. The primary investigator in the CDC Gardasil trials both resisted calling for boys to be immunized and calling HPV something other than an STD (and she considers herself a feminist). Friends questioned her expertise (and right) to dabble in seemingly settled medical issues. Colleagues cobbled together anecdotal evidence to suggest that perhaps HPV should indeed be called an STD (or that she should sympathize with those who continue to do so). When she brought up the topic on the feminist blogs, most commenters would protest that this kind of dangerous attitude might hurt girls (turns out that calling HPV an STD made immunizing girls a non-starter for many, many parents). Even the editors at Feminist Formations suggested to Sport that she back off of her conclusions.

Anybody who knows her would be unsurprised that Sport was undeterred. Her passionate advocacy for women's autonomy--medical or otherwise--kept her on a path of declaring that the Emperor had no clothes. To be fair, all of the critique and criticism from others DID help her point her critique squarely at the heart of the problem--gendered formulation of medical research, diagnosis, and treatment regimes. Feminist Formations did publish this article (I can send a copy if you would like it). Perhaps most gratifyingly, it turns out, the medical establishment has begun to recognize what she knew nearly 5 years ago--gender assumptions still permeate the medical industrial complex. Breaking these gender chains might better help us prevent pain for 12,000 women who have cervical cancer, 1,400 men who have penile cancer, and 50,000 men and women who have head and neck cancer. EVERY YEAR.

It's nice to see academic work vindicated--doubly so when so many people cast doubt on it. Sport did a good, good thing.

9.07.2011

There are moments in your life when the distance of your journey snaps into clarity--this afternoon I had one of those moments.

About 20 years ago, I was an undergrad trying to keep the glow of my time in England alive. I poured the inspirational energy of a chance meeting with Toni Morrison into my honors thesis on Morrison's Song of Solomon--a book tracing the adventures of an African-American protagonist who travels south in search of his past, and who finds himself in a parallel journey with the flying African, Solomon. My frantic attempts to connect this artistic tradition with the postmodern theorizing of Henry Louis Gates Jr. found its echo this morning. The first piece of work I did today was to email two colleagues at Kenyatta University to set up a classroom translation collaboration between our two universities. Next, I found myself in a high-level meeting discussing the possible creation of an immersive media M.A. program, and the possibilities of dovetailing it with my posthuman studies of an African social movement. Finally, I had a meeting with a city employee looking for ways to set up a social media campaign for a six-figure NEH grant which aims connect a Manhattan artist, local artists, and an under-represented/underserved part of the Fargo community to create an ecological art installation/community commons. All three projects are completely fantastic, and frankly beyond what I would have imagined even a few months ago, but here I am combining my interest in Africa, my American pragmatism, and my understanding of our strange, postmodern historical moment.

The line between that naive undergrad and me seems strangely straight, but the distance is very clear. It was at that moment that I sort of sat back and wondered how the heck I've made it this far. I really don't know, other than through the generosity (and occasional underestimation) by others. Thanks. For both.

6.06.2011

This was day we circled to board the plane, which, means that we had to get a lot packed in. Our queen of hospitality, LK, was nice enough to give us some amazing French-press coffee. Not only did she not complain about our coffee snobbery, she pretty much exceeded our skills at placating caffeinated savagery.

Before departing back to the mainland, we knew that we had to see where LK works--The East-West Center. Yes, kids, this is where the magic happens. ALL of the magic.

Fortunately, there was an exhibit from North Korea when we visited. I like the way that this artist mixed both photo-realistic techniques with some of the more rough-hewn elegance of traditional brushstrokes.

As we walked the campus at the University of Hawaii, I was pretty amazed at how much it resembles Fargo year-round. Or something. Not jealous. Nope.

This lion with the groovy eyewear was just BEGGING for a snap with the Docs Marai.

I had seen a sala before, but never one quite this beautiful (and never one on a campus). There are many days that I wish I had a quiet outdoor space for contemplation.

Mirm and I shared the Lobster Dog (described as "Lobster sausage seared in butter then dressed with garlic aioli, relish and pickled takuan radish"). We bought a side of truffled mac-and-cheese and house made ginger soda (Hammer, I'll let you know who wins the ginger-off).

After lunch, we had to get rid of all of the gear we had accumulated coming to Hawaii. Our snorkel gear was barely used. Luckily, it served its secondary purpose of signaling our gender to onlookers. Thanks Snorkel Bob!

One of the drawbacks of Oahu is how built up it is. I find the development quite stunning (both positively and negatively stunning).

Our final dinner was at a distinctively Hawaiian kind of Japanese restaurant.

This place has a bit more in the way of food that you might find in a restaurant in Japan (not just sushi). It seems like the Hawaiian Japanese restaurants also have more garlic. Lots more garlic.

The appetizers were probably the best thing we had. The spicy tuna was particularly amazing.

The curry was quite different than Middle Eastern curry (more like gravy than a broth). It was good, but not nearly as good as the appetizers.

Tempura with ponzu sauce? Always good, of course.

Benito busted out the modestly-floral Hawaiian shirt for just this occasion. Naturally, LK decided to up the ante with these decorative earrings designed to be brandished. I think LK was signaling that she was "lo" on her beverage.

5.26.2011

Nine days seems like a long pause between arriving and doing one of the things you most want to do on vacation. When it comes to surfing, though, that which most attracts also most repels. You see, surfing scares the sea foam out of me, which is approximately 75% of its attraction. Surfing in Hawaii scares me doubly, because of the treacherous coral outcroppings and shallow surf breaks.

Despite the horrific story 'Ito told us about his surf instructor friend almost dying at this Waikiki surf spot, I decided to get past my fears and sign up for a morning surf course/session. I chose to have my surf lessons with the recommended Hans Hederman Surf School (yes, that was who Ito's friend worked for).

As you can might guess from the photo, we had to paddle out past coral during low tide. I didn't wonder why we went over how to both get up on our boards and to crawl back down without actually falling onto the coral. I have not had a lot of long rides on a surfboard, and the prospect of not only popping up and sticking usually doesn't require the added difficulty of crawling back down.

Fortunately, the added fear factor helped me have my longest rides. In fact, I had to come in a bit early because my legs and arms were completely wrecked from successfully catching and riding waves (sadly, being out into the low-tide distance meant that my weak camera couldn't capture any of these rides respectably). I will have to wait for a future surf session for that, sadly.

When we got back from the surf session (and post-surf nosh), LK and 'Ito hosted a party for us (to both celebrate and meet more of their friends). Nothing compliments a morning surf session like pre-party mojito.

Miriam's lei had survived the 9 days with the aid of refrigeration.

A trip to the local Whole Foods netted us this piece of New Mexico. Yes, we had a bit of adult beverage variety going on here. It's Hawaii!

Of course, you know that wherever members of Supper Club™ meet, good food is sure to follow.

Miriam are a little enamored with this zucchini pesto salad (serving the raw zucchini in thin ribbons with basil, cheese, pine nuts, olive oil, and lemon is pretty much my definition of a perfect food). When we got back from Hawaii, we ate this every week.

The party guests did impressions of their drinks. Here we have the dread of an Irish Guinness.

The casual friendliness of a Cabernet Sauvignon.

Hanging loose with nary a glass or tumbler.

LK and 'Ito not only organized our day and evening, they made us feel like honored guests. Thank you for the hospitality!

4.27.2011

The final day on the North Shore started a bit more calmly. The 30-foot swells had been replaced by a more summerly gentleness. We even recognized our snorkeling spot.

Of course, by this point, the rich restaurant meals had started to get to me. This morning, Starbucks oatmeal seemed to be the perfect antidote to too many lipids. Of course, the fact that there is a Starbucks in the middle of a chicken-infested semi-rural stretch made me question why Fargo can't seem to keep their Starbucks. Perhaps we need more chickens.

As you may have guessed by now, we tend to veer off of our "plan" (really, it was just a google doc that we used to snarkily collaborate with LK in creating a stroll through a Magnum P.I. episode). This day was no different. When we saw humpback whales in the distance (during our healthy breakfast), we hatched a plan that can only be described as "unsound." At 9 a.m., we were going to squeeze in a whale-watching adventure before circumnavigating the island to return to Honolulu for dinner. Fortunately, a quick trip on the internets, and we found a whale-watching catamaran that would take us, if we could pack our gear and drive to the dock in a languid 25 minutes. As you may have guessed, we made it.

Of course, being married to the love-child of MacGyver and Xena meant that we sat in the netting on the front of this particular craft. Unsurprisingly, the size of the waves (now only 15-20 feet) combined with the netting did not help to keep us dry. Fortunately, we wore our rashies.

Despite the fact that our crew members were interesting and very professional....

Our voyage did not disappoint. Despite the fact that it took us a while to catch up to the whales, catch up we did.

This mother/calf pair were only two of many we saw. The rockiness of the ride, and the desire to actually SEE the whales did not result in the taking of fantastic shots. Still, it was magical to see humpback whales slapping flukes and pectoral fins.

Naturally, the brine and the waves made us think of sushi. Yes, it was fresh.

Yes, it was delicious.

The rolls? Yes.

The pork? O.K., so I DID have a few bites of this. Yup. What you might not have guessed is that they served it with potato salad. I. Kid. You. Not.

Green tea ice cream. What's not to like about the perfect end to the nearly-perfect day?

4.18.2011

In order to more fully experience the argument/line of reasoning/essay Geoffrey Sirc makes in his chapter "Box Logic," we all created a version of the Cornell Box. I added in the caveat that some sort of writing must also be incorporated. Here is what we came up with in the hour we allotted to this particular task.

My box presented itself like a found poem, with a city street already printed inside. The poem "The City," by C.P. Cavafy reflected on the encapsulated nature of the subject; the world. The toy ball armed with the means to burn the city down just fit; in the poem and in the box.

Alyson Guthrie

My box entitled "Idealism" is a representation of the idealistic views I often find myself believing in and hoping for. The dreamlike sky, the image of a child, a peace rock, along with different quotations and lyrics evoke these views.

Steven Hammer

My box is titled, "Once a toy, always a toy," and it is an old memory game by Tiger Electronics that I've opened and circuit bent, creating an experimental sound machine. While the sounds aren't universally pleasing or understood as music, both the process of bending and the performance of the sounds exemplify finding the art in the ordinary. The materiality is exposed and nude, and the bender is invited to redirect energy and reconstruct the instrument. The most valuable lesson in the practice of bending is the element of chance, or if you will, the absence of dominant constructions of sound classification (notes and scales, logical and linear). And so on...

Doc Mara

My box, "California Dreaming," offers a chance to examine constructed nostalgia. A picture of a past celebration combines with festive, floral, tropical, and exoticized signifiers. Post-It notes covered with lines of Shakesepare's most celebrated marriage sonnet juxtapose the mundane with the popular imagination of enduring social bonds. The box which contains all of these objects is clementine box from Morocco, and it's final passenger sits in anticipation of its eventual demise.